


Challenger

by freakylemurcat



Series: Collar and Cuffs [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, BDSM, Desk Sex, False Spike (Transformers), M/M, Master/Pet, Mutual Masturbation, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Valve Play (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22563556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: Prowl is good at setting limits; Jazz is very bad at accepting his own.It shouldn't be surprising this includes the berthroom.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Series: Collar and Cuffs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578811
Comments: 6
Kudos: 80





	Challenger

The emergency hail bypassed his message inbox entirely and presented itself right at the forefront of Prowl’s processors. There was no ignoring it, and for good reason.

He had been half-turned away from Jazz’ faceplates, focussed far more intently on other parts of his protoform with his fingers and toys, but the moment he received the ‘compromised’ ping, he dropped what he was holding and looked up. 

Jazz was thin lipped and shaking, gears creaking with tension. Prowl pulled the quick release on the cords he had tightly bound the mech’s arms with and stepped away, giving him the space to shake the ropes from his limbs. 

"Better?" He asked.

Jazz slumped in a heap and rasped, "Yeah. Just give me a klik." 

Obediently, Prowl collected the heap of cords and tidied them away, kicked the lube under the berth, and by the time he turned back to the bed Jazz no longer looked quite as shaken. 

"Sorry, Prowl," he murmured, looking downcast and disappointed. Prowl couldn't stand for that, and scrambled up onto the berth to pull the mech up against his chest. 

"No apologies," he said, tucking Jazz' helm against his chest. "Give yourself another breem or two." 

He pet over his helm, stroked down his back and flanks, coaxing the tension out of his frame bit by bit. By the time Jazz' servos came up to wrap around his back he knew he was winning and felt his own tension start to release in turn. Jazz was not prone to safewording - he was far tougher than evden his reputation suggested - but Prowl knew the point of their play was to strip them both of the weight that the war had leant them and sometimes trauma was just too fresh. 

"I know you like it," mumbled Jazz, in a quiet voice, the stark opposite to his normal bubbly volume. "I kinda wanna like it too. It just... I was..." 

Prowl rocked them down onto the berth, face to face on their sides, and entwined his hands through Jazz' fingers. "I need no reasons if it is too difficult to give them. That you called a halt when you were uncomfortable with the scene is no bad thing." He pulled a servo up and kissed the palm, where he could see the gouges from fingers too tightly clenched. "I am proud of you for doing so. I know it goes against your training." 

"Ain't supposed to admit it's too much," said Jazz. He smiled shortly. "Ironically ya gotta train SpecOps how to pretend surrender for missions, otherwise we go a bit am-dram." 

"Your honesty is always appreciated here," said Prowl and kissed his palm one last time. "In return I must apologise. You are correct in that I like aftplay, but perhaps I was a little gung-ho in our experimentation. I wouldn't wish to harm you." 

"Just torture me?" said Jazz, but the glimmer of playfulness was easing back into his field and Prowl understood it was teasing. 

"Only as much as you want," he smirked back and accepted the kiss that Jazz landed on his cheek. "But tonight I think perhaps no more." 

Jazz hummed thoughtfully. He no longer looked as badly shaken, but Prowl's keen optics could still see the tiny tells he was not feeling quite his best just yet. The fact he didn't complain when Prowl declared them finished for the evening was telling enough, but he fell into a light recharge with his helm tucked over Prowl's spark and it was... 

Pleasant? Yes, that was close enough.

He liked Jazz. That was part of the reason he had suggested their agreement after all; he wouldn't have done so if he hadn't. The mech was handsome and well-constructed, with a charismatic personality and a mind like a blade. In peacetime Prowl would have definitely given him a closer look; in the insecurity of wartime they had fallen into berth together promptly and with no regrets. 

He was useful as well, too essential to the Autobot cause to lose to the dark vagaries of his job. All SpecOps had coping mechanisms, but none of them were fool proof; if what kept Jazz in line and sane was Prowl's servo around his throat, then that was what Prowl would provide. 

And if what he needed some other times was to lay his helm on Prowl's chest plates and have a nap? Well, contrary to popular belief Prowl wasn't wholly sparkless. 

* * *

Prowl dozed comfortably for some joors, until a shift in the weight against his chest triggered his proximity sensors. His optics onlined to see Jazz' silhouette slowly sitting up. 

"Feeling more like yourself?" He murmured. 

"Yeah," sighed Jazz, stretching luxuriously. His joints clicked and pivoted in a number of strange ways in testament to his flexibility, before  he draped himself over Prowl’s chest again, helm cushioned comfortably on a headlight. “I’m still runnin’ a charge though,” he crooned, slithering a hand up over Prowl’s flank, nimble fingers tickling seams and vents.

“Are you now?” Prowl’s own charge had mostly settled, but there was still enough to start up if needs be and Jazz was always tempting. “What do you want?” he purred, petting an audial horn affectionately.

“Come ‘ere,” said Jazz, easing back onto the sheets and luring Prowl to roll and kiss him. His servos danced over Prowl’s frame, dipping into seams and vents , tracing the the spots that worked without fail to get him fired up.

Prowl let him do what he wanted, let Jazz take control for a while and reassure himself. Finally his charge reached a high enough point to redirect fuel back to his array; as if he sensed it, Jazz’s servos started to drift down to cup at his codpiece.

“Open up?” murmured Jazz, against Prowl’s lips. “Let me touch ya.”

His spike was not yet fully filled with energon to fully pressurise yet, but a warm, slow slide of a palm over his sensitive protoform helped kick up the flow. Soon his spike was fully pressurised and grinding over Jazz’ pelvis.

To his surprise, Jazz transformed back his own codpiece instead of his valve cover. Jazz preferred his valve, Prowl preferred his spike, but there was no moratorium on the use of either. It was still unusual for Jazz to choose this over penetration, but Prowl figured they were in an unusual enough situation so it was fair enough.

“This ok?” Jazz asked.

“Of course,” said Prowl, “I’ll have you anyway.” And it was true – Jazz had a nice spike, proportionate to his frame, with handsome parallel columns of bright blue biolights forming lines down the sides. It fitted just right in Prowl’s palm.

“Somethin’ a little different,” said Jazz, “A change should be a good as a rest, yeah?”

“Whatever you want,” said Prowl again, nuzzling affectionately to Jazz’ brow.

To be fair, it was nice to get his servos on Jazz’ spike, especially as Jazz slowly stroked his own, mouths pressing against one another sweetly. There was none of the high-pressure, urgent tension of much of their normal play, but an almost relaxing build to climax and neither of them were in a hurry to get there. There was no effort to hold back either: Jazz spilled first, overloading with a soft moan against Prowl’s mouth as he did. Prowl didn’t need much more than that, and overloaded soon after.

“Promise you will not punish yourself for tonight,” he said, as they basked in the afterglow.

“Nah,” said Jazz, “I’m not a mech to dwell on stuff. Anyway, ain’t punishin’ me your job?”

Prowl nipped the nearest available audial horn in mild rebuke. “You’re being flippant.”

“Now  _ that’s _ like me,” said Jazz, with a blithe grin. “Don’t worry, Prowler,” he added, “Gotta have limits don’t we?”

* * *

Prowl should have known that this was a failing that Jazz would not accept. Not that he even considered it a failing – not all mecha liked all aspects of interface after all, and nor should they be expected to. Prowl had liked aft play himself previously, but if this was something that Jazz wanted to set hard limits on then he would not press.

In retrospect he should have known better to assume that Jazz would accept a limit. He  _ definitely _ should have known better to believe Jazz when he said he would.

It had been a slow cycle – one of many recently. The Decepticons had many wounds to lick and and the Autobot had enough distractions that pressing their advantage wasn’t on the goal list. Prowl had been taking advantage of the calm to redo some important tactical considerations, factoring in the ever changing minefield listed under ‘personal factors’. He would never be truly accurate but by constant recalculating he could get under an acceptable margin of error. 

Jazz and his Spec Ops team had been taking the opportunity to run amok through the base in the name of ‘training’. Prowl had tolerated it - after an incident involved two tonnes of glitter, SpecsOps considered him a high-risk target and tended to set their chaotic sights on easier victims. This time the target had been Ratchet and his favourite wrench, and it had ended in a siege situation in the rec-room. 

It had all ended with Optimus having to practise his most delicate diplomacy skills, as he returned the wrench to the CMO’s clenched fists and persuaded the promise that he wouldn’t  _ severely _ damage the sneaky little slaggers. For everyone else not directly involved it was good entertainment, at the very least, especially when Mirage tried to sneak past the picketline of miffed medics and was nearly caught by three sets of overpowered sensors. 

Jazz escaped easily enough - like a sensible commanding officer he was rarely close enough to the trouble to get caught and blamed, but Prowl knew fine well he was involved. He would be ranging the dark hallways and secret spaces of the base, running hot and flushed with success.

That he snuck into Prowl’s office later that cycle was not too much of a surprise, so Prowl did not jump when he entered and found his desk no longer piled with his console and datapads, but a softly purring race frame.

“You are a menace,” Prowl said, setting the armful of pads he was carrying on the side table where Jazz had haphazardly thrown the rest of his stuff. “Creating such mayhem.”

“Kept my mecha outta trouble,” said Jazz. 

Prowl realised there was an edge of something else to his field, some anticipation that Prowl couldn’t quite place. “What else are you up to?” he asked.

“Mischief,” said Jazz, sitting up on the edge of the desk, so his thighs draped over Prowl’s hips when he stepped closer. He was warm and smelling of bright burnt fuel and the powder Smokescreen used to throw off his namesake.

“Yes?” Prowl nuzzled in along the cable of his throat, so he could feel the mech’s vocaliser tremble against his olfactory ridge as he spoke.

“Yeah, but Prowler…?”

Uncharacteristic hesitation. Prowl’s processor snapped out of its lustful consideration of the top curve of Jazz’ chest and he leant back slightly.

Jazz still looked flushed and keen, as if his nerves weren’t significantly interrupting his plans, but there was an upward infection to his glyphs that turned his words into delicate questions. “I was wonderin’ if we could keep it.. um… simple this time? None of our play stuff? Just you and me?”

“I had no plans otherwise,” said Prowl. “I always warn you when I would like to engage in our play.”

“Yeah,” said Jazz, reaching out to pull Prowl in for a slow soft kiss. When they broke apart, Prowl’s mouth tingled with the sweetness that had been bestowed on him. “But what I mean is could we keep it as me and my Prowler? No pet or Prowl?”

“Ah.” Realisation sunk in. “Of course. I see. Of course we can.”

Jazz’ smile was brilliant and Prowl didn’t resist the urge to kiss him again. “Yeah, mech! I wanna try somethin’. I reckon it’ll go.. uh.. smoother.. if I’m more  _ me _ .”

Curiosity peaked, Prowl left himself be maneuvered around the desk and settled into his desk chair, Jazz draping himself across his lap like some expensive courtesan on a king's throne.

(Now that was an idea that might bear more thought. But not now, later on.)

“I’ve been doin’ some homework,” said Jazz, crossing his legs up in the air like a dancer. “There’s some real interestin’ e-books out there if ya know where to look.”

“Dare I ask?” said Prowl. Jazz’ aft was just perfectly positioned in his lap to rest on his codpiece – given Jazz’ awareness of his own frame, it was likely no coincidence, the little minx.

“And I’ll admit I had a ulterior motive for plannin’ that raid on the medbay,” Jazz continued. He reached into his subspace and extracted a bottle , half-full of translucent oily fluid. “Needed a distraction to nick this.”

Prowl took it and peered at the label.

“Lubrican…” Prowl’s tac-unit supplied a few likely scenarios. “Jazz...”

“I was thinkin’ we should try you fraggin’ my aft again,” said Jazz, his voice dropping into that low husky register that made Prowl’s doorwings tingle . “I been workin’ hard on it, and I reckon I fancy another go. Only if ya wanna?”

“Only if  _ I _ want to?” said Prowl, trying to sound calm, but feeling his vents kick on to betray him. “Only if you want to, Jazz, please don’t feel pressu-“

When Jazz moved at his full speed and grace he sometimes surprised Prowl, even after all the vorns they had been acquaintances. Now he slithered out of Prowl’s lap and back up onto the edge of the table, arms crossed under his bumper.

“And if I wanna?” he snapped. “I ain’t puttin’ 7 cycles worth of stuffin’ my own damn digits up my port for nothin’, Prowler. I ain’t ever gonna be able to look at Wheeljack the same way after what I had ta ask him to build for me. Ain’t ya noticed I ain’t been in your berth for a while?”

Prowl had. It had been cold without Jazz slumbering beside him, but he had thought it had been a leftover from their failed attempt at aftplay - that Jazz was feeling embarrassed, and that giving him space would be best.

“I did,” he said, “It’s been a touch lonely with double the amount of pillows and only my own hand for company.” A thought occurred. “What did you have Wheeljack build for you?”

“Stop tryin’ to distract me,” said Jazz. “I want ya to frag me up the aft. Are you gonna?” He planted his heel right in between Prowls thighs on the edge of the desk chair, perilously close to sensitive equipment to highlight his insistence.

Bossy. Prowl liked that. He leaned forward up out of his chair, so Jazz’ thigh pressed up tight to his interface panels and drew him into a long, kiss, glossa slipping into the mech’s mouth until they were trading pants to cool their helms.

“That a yes?” wheezed Jazz.

“As long as you promise that you will stop if you do not enjoy it - and could you  _ actually _ promise me, this time?”

“Yeah, Prowler, I  _ promise _ . Let’s give it a go?”

Prowl sighed. The bottle of lubricant was still in his servo and when he shook it, it sloshed noisily. “Could you not have stolen a full one?”

Jazz’ faceplates flushed magenta briefly. “It was when I got it.”

“You have been dedicated,” said Prowl.

“I  _ really _ wanna, Prowler,” 

“Far be it for me to ruin such carefully laid plans.”

Jazz grin was brilliant and beautiful; Prowl set about immediately kissing it off his face, continuing to lean in and grind his own plating against that so kindly proffered thigh. After a few kliks trading hot, open-mouthed kisses, Jazz gently leant his weight against his chest until he was seated back in his desk chair.

“We could take this to one of our quarters?” Prowl suggested, feeling his vocaliser rasp with collected charge.

“We could,” said Jazz, thoughtfully, as if he wasn’t as badly affected by his arousal as Prowl, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. “But that would mean a delay. And I’ve always thought it real hot when you fragged me over your desk…Like some kinda naughty student getting punished by their teacher…”

Prowl quirked an optical ridge. “I thought you didn’t want to play right now?”

Jazz slid his pedes to the floor and turned to brace his elbows on the desk in front of him. “Oh I don’t,” he said blithely over his shoulder, “But it’s somethin’ to keep in mind, for the future yeah?”

It wasn’t like Prowl didn’t already have a list. He made a swift amendment, right before Jazz transformed his plates back and all of Prowl’s thoughts stalled.

Jazz' protoform was a lovely silvery grey, with a nearly metallic sheen which was particularly handsome. His nodes glowed a healthy cyan blue with arousal, his valve lips were plump with redirected fuel, glistening with the pale pink of his own lubricant. Prowl had to resist the urge to bury his faceplates in the petals, curl his tongue around that glorious blue anterior node until Jazz screamed for him.

And just above, as it was from his perspective, was the tight iris of his aft port. Except, and wasn’t that a titillating sight, it wasn’t as tight as it should have been, slightly slack and slick with oil.

“What do you think?” said Jazz, sounding slightly breathless.

“Gorgeous,” said Prowl, meaning it wholly. He reached out, digits trailing the silky soft protoform delicately, his thumb digit brushing over the slick furl of the port.

“Have you been playing with yourself then?”

“Yeah,” murmured Jazz, “Like I told ya, that damn bottle was full when I got it.”

The bottle of lubricant was still at hand, and Prowl popped the cap. It had the inoffensive smell of sterile medical grade oil, suitably thick and slippery but without the rich luxurious feel he might have used instead.

But it worked, and that was the main issue.

“Why don’t you show me?” he purred, pressing the container into his servo. “Why don't you lie back on my desk and give me a show?”

Jazz arched his back like some wanton creature. “Only if you gimme one in return. Show me you’re enjoyin’ it.”

Well Prowl was amenable enough to that, and it was more than easy to pressurise his spike, stroking it slowly as he watched Jazz drape himself along the length of his desk and pour a measure of oil over his digits.

He took up position on his elbows and knees, helm turned to rake over Prowl greedily as he reached back and slithered his hand over the curve of his own aft. From this angle, Prowl couldn’t see all of the action, but he could see Jazz’ face as he circled the pad of one digit over his port.

One of Prowl’s favourite pastimes was watching Jazz as he became increasingly debauched – it was why he had the cushion in his quarters set on the floor with a perfect vantage from his favourite chair after all. Jazz’ handsome face was so mobile and expressive, and he had so little compunction with letting it show, so Prowl could almost feel what he felt as he slipped that first finger deeper in – the brief tension leading down to a slow curious relaxation.

Prowl rolled his grip up to the tip of his spike and back down slowly, in time with the gentle thrusts that Jazz was managing, until the first beads of transfluid oozed to the tip. His recent berthroom life had been empty after all, so everything was a bit more sensitive and his tanks fuller than normal.

“You sure you want all of this in your aft?” he asked, stroking himself again and slouching back a little more so his spike was visible in all its glory. Jazz’ expression grew only more hungry.

“Yeah!” he breathed, and he hurriedly slicked up his digits again, and this time went for two. He plunged deep on the first pass this time, muffling a squeak by biting his own bottom lip but the rest of his frame stayed loose and relaxed. “Gimme a second and I’ll show ya what I been playin’ with.”

Three digits made Jazz arch his back, trying to get enough leverage to the elbow he was leaning on to frag himself back into his own digits, which – dear  _ Primus _ – was hot. Prowl had to take a tight grip at the bottom of his spike and squeeze to regain control over his raging libido at the sight. It was almost disappointing when he pulled his servo free, but then he rummaged in his subspace again and Prowl was very interested instead.

“Not something I would have necessarily expected Wheeljack to be making,” said Prowl after a moment’s thought, “But I cannot say I am surprised.” He paused and added, “Was the colour scheme your suggestion?”

Jazz grinned and brought the false spike up to his devious mouth, planting a little kiss on its tip, identically coloured to the one Prowl still had in his grasp. “I had significant input into the aesthetics.”

“You’ve been using that?” The false-spike was, as far as Prowl could see, not only accurate in colouration but also in dimensions.

“Yeah,” said Jazz, slipping a little more of it onto his tongue - when Prowl was back in charge, he would be making the mech choke on it while he fragged him with his own version.

“It ain’t as hard as the real thing,” said Jazz around his mouthful, “Got a bit more give… It does the trick. Wanna see?”

“Primus, yes,” said Prowl.

Jazz poured another handful of oil out into his servo, and vigorously slicked up his toy; the whole structure wobbled and rattled slightly when he did.

“Does it vibrate? I might be replaced if it does..”

“Nah,” said Jazz, “TThink it’s filled with ball bearings or summat. Makes it shake real nice when you move with it.” He reached back and positioned the tip over the entrance of his port, and Prowl was torn between watching his face and the sight of the false spike pressing in. “Oh!”

He clearly had played with it plenty: he seemed to know exactly how to press it in, slowly, to let the blunt tip open him a little more and then pull back to try again. He took it gradually, until he was past the flare of the tip and then until it had sank to the very base.

“Oh frag..!” Jazz moaned and clutched his free hand desperately around the edge of the table, open and destroyed. He fucked himself with the spike , rough sloppy thrusts, with as much coordination as he could manage with one arm twisted behind his back. He must have enjoyed it, Prowl thought, as his field blossomed with the same sort of lust that captured him when Prowl took him down hard. His expression was one of ecstasy as he fucked himself, valve dripping long slivers of lubricant onto the desk surface between his legs.

Prowl desperately wanted to give him the real thing.

“Jazz,” he crooned, ”Do you want me to take over, you’re working so hard…”

“Mmm, said Jazz, “Maybe ya could use your spike instead?”

“Let me touch you first of all.” He pulled Jazz gently around, so he was bent forward over the surface again, taking the false spike in his own servo and rocking it back and forward carefully. Jazz moaned and took it beautifully, all relaxed and pliable under his touch, so he set the toy aside and dripped some of the remaining oil over his digits. 

Prowl first touch was soft and tender, stroking over the relaxed port gently. Two digits slipped in easily, tubing flexing and squeezing around his touch.

“Does it feel good?” murmured Jazz.

“Beautiful,” said Prowl. His spike was rubbing silvery trails over the back of one of Jazz’ thick thighs. “Are you-“

“Prowler, ask me if I’m sure one more time!” snapped Jazz, “Frag me!”

Prowl obeyed – what else was he to do when asked so nicely - and he watched open-vented as that he was swallowed bit by bit.

Jazz was tight, but not painfully so, internals boiling with the heat of his lust, and flexing in rhythmic pulses around the spike invading him. In front of Prowl, his back was a lovely arch, a curling bridge from his hips to his shoulders, and his hands curled around the desk and squeezed as he groaned long and low.

“Now is this all right?” said Prowl, with only a hint of smugness.

Jazz let each vent release with a shuddering hiss and then, carefully, pushed back against Prowl’s spike. “Yeah..”

“Jazz...” Prowl almost made to withdraw, afraid that the mech was pushing too far, but a black hand caught his own and interlaced the digits.

“Please,” said Jaazz, his frame relaxing in a slow wave, his field blossoming open so Prowl could have felt the depths of his pleasure from rooms away. “Gimme all you got, Prowler.”

“Lovely,” breathed Prowl, and leant in tighter, so every inch sank into that boiling heat, “Primus, you feel so good.” His armour tapped the plating on Jazz’ aft and he held tight for a few moments as deeply as he could.

At first, Prowl fragged him slowly, enjoying every grip and flex of the iris around his spike as it clutched at him on the pull back and then relaxed on the thrust in. He kept the bottle of oil close to hand, dripping more on whenever there was any catch or friction at all. Instead he made sure the path stayed smooth and slick and Jazz stayed groaning with pleasure. He stayed cautious and calm, until Jazz started to push back against him more, shoving himself onto the spike, panting soft curses with each thrust.

Soon there was enough oil and movement to elicit slick wet sounds, in lovely countertime to Jazz’ desperate moans. Prowl stayed alert to any sign of discomfort, but Jazz seemed far beyond that, now braced up on his hands so he could take Prowl’s spike all the more vigorously, 

He hung his helm with the effort, hiding his face even more from Prowl’s sight. Perhaps he was trying to catch a glimpse of the spike pumping into him from behind, and Prowl made a note to borrow Sunstreaker’s mirror sometime, so they could enjoy that together for real.

But right now, his own charge was rising and Jazz was groaning his designation in increasingly desperate tones, pulling hard on the hands they had intertwined.

“Come here,” growled Prowl, pulling the mech upright off the table, so they were plastered back to front. Jazz had to arch his back more to curl around the obstruction of Prowl’s bumper, and that made his aft stick out further, and something in the change of position pushed Prowl’s spike into just the right spot to make him shout.

“That good?” he snarled, thrusting up into the tight grasping hole that had so greedily accepted him. “Tell me!”

“Primus, yes!” Jazz’ suave tones were nearly a wail. His voice had that little hitch that always meant he was on the verge of overload, and Prowl grasped his hips and purred a suggestion to reach down and rub his own node until he did. He could feel the pulse of increased charge when Jazz obeyed, one hand dipping down. He himself grasped Jazz’ taut little waist and held tight as he fragged him, close to the same ferocity that he might have fucked his dripping wet valve. Jazz barely lasted ten thrusts before his charge coalesced in sparks and he overloaded with a moan of Prowl’s designation. He shook and trembled and writhed, and Prowl fragged him through it, until his limbs were shaking and he was slumping forward over the desk again.

“Good?” asked Prowl, feeling a little smug. He could get the mech to pop off like that with some play and a little time, but just from simple fragging alone was a new personal best.

“Don’t stop,” slurred Jazz, vocaliser jumping with static. “I wanna feel it this way.”

Prowl picked up his pace again, until the clatter of armour drowned out the slick sounds of oil, but nothing could drown out the hitch and moan of Jazz’ cries. He took it so well, gasping and relaxed and exhausted in Prowl’s grip, slumping down over the desk top again as the energy seeped from him in the aftermath of his overload. He was so smooth and tight and perfect around Prowl’s spike, not as soft and clutching as his valve mesh; something different and similar at the same time. It felt amazing enough, without the thought that this was something that Jazz had worked on for Prowl’s pleasure and Prowl’s pleasure alone. That was the tipping point.

His overload hit like a bullet, a hammer, and the gush of his tanks emptying was almost painfully pleasurable, charge thumping through in heavy blows. He thrust through his overload, until transfluid leaked out on each withdrawal, spilling down Jazz’s thighs to plink droplets onto the floor, and finally, finally he was spent.

He slumped down over Jazz’ back, venting hard and fans roaring to clear his heat. 

For once, it was Jazz who shifted first - in a scene he remained Prowl’s to play with long after overload - but he was not in the right mindset and Prowl knew having another mecha vent on top of you was smothering. He withdrew carefully, his spike slipping free with a soft pop and a trickle of transfluid, and slumped back into his desk chair. 

Jazz reached back, touching himself carefully, seeming to decide that everything was, in fact, as it should be. As Prowl watched, he slid back his array covers with only the smallest of a wince and straightened a little more. Even to Prowl’s sharp optics he looked simply satisified and triumphant. 

He half-tossed himself into Prowl’s lap again, all long limbs and easy going grace, and Prowl accepted him gratefully. 

“You’re smug,” said Prowl. 

“Told ya I could do it,” he replied. 

“I never said you couldn’t.” Prowl knew better than to argue too much. “Regardless, I appreciate the effort you went to. It was unnecessary, but very enjoyable.”

Jazz gave him a pleased smile. “Yeah, I know ya like my aft somethin’ shockin’. Wanted to give you a treat.”

“It wasn’t necessary,” repeated Prowl, but he nuzzled a kiss to Jazz’ full cheek. “But should you ever fancy giving me a ‘treat’ again, I shan’t complain.”

**Author's Note:**

> Prowl could have lived a long and happy existence without knowing that Wheeljack knows exactly what his spike looks like.
> 
> He also could have lived without Wheeljack putting an industrial strength suction cup on the bottom, so his desk has a one-to-one copy of his spike stuck upright on it until Jazz stops laughing long enough to lever it off. 
> 
> (One day I promise I will write something that isn't literally 5000 words of butt stuff. 
> 
> It'll still be porn. And like 2500 words of it will be butt stuff. BUT THAT'S STILL AN IMPROVEMENT.)


End file.
